CapturedbytheSS (3 page)

I don’t say anything. My careless words have already gotten
me in enough trouble. I’m not sure why he thinks my Irish accent was smart…it
didn’t work.

“Come. Stand up,” he declares once he has his hat and gloves
back on.

Without any threat or flair, he stands up briskly and
retrieves a set of handcuffs from his belt.

Suddenly queasy, I don’t stand. Hell, I’m not even certain I
can move.

“I said ‘stand up’, American.”

Inhaling deeply, I try to remember my training. I’ve been
told that in the event of capture, I should try to cooperate and do nothing to
provoke my keepers…aside from giving away information of course. And following
an order to stand doesn’t betray US security. On wobbly legs, I manage to
stand.

“Good. Now we need to figure out exactly what to do with
such a clever American spy.”

As he talks, he deftly turns me around before cuffing my
wrists behind my back. I take slow, measured breaths, willing myself to stay
calm.

A bit lightheaded, I barely register him patting me down. His
gloved hands slip in each of my coat pockets before skimming briefly around my
waist. The search doesn’t take very long. I think he knows already I’m not
armed. Wordlessly, he turns me toward the door.

With a swift hand gesture, he motions for me to walk.
Willing my legs to move, I manage to take a step before slowly crossing the
room. He follows closely behind me. I stop at the closed door, and he steps
next to me before opening it.

“Move,” he orders coldly, gesturing with a swift jerk of his
head.

I step out into the hall. As an agent, I’ve always known
capture is a definite possibility. But somehow, I never thought this would
happen. It’s a bit surreal. I feel I’m living out a reoccurring nightmare.

His hand lands on my left shoulder. He coaxes me to turn
right. We walk for several paces before he pushes me to the right again. I stop
at a closed door. He steps next to me to unlock and then open it before roughly
grabbing my arm.

“Step forward, American,” he snaps, coaxing me to walk
again. I will my numb body to cooperate.

We’re outside. I’m not certain, but I think we’re on the
other side of the checkpoint. I consider making a run for it, but a fast glance
around me quickly makes me rethink that idea. I immediately spot three armed
patrolmen watching us. Running at this point would be stupid. Besides, I can’t
exactly haul ass in heels.

A black car is parked near the building. He guides me toward
the passenger side. His hand abandons my shoulder before he opens the door.

“Get in,” he orders.

Reluctantly, I climb in and sit down. He shuts the door. He
doesn’t hurry in walking around the front to the driver’s side. After opening
the other door, he quickly sits down and then starts the car. A seat belt
snakes around me as the engine quietly comes to life. I’m not sure what kind of
car I’m in, but I can tell it’s a high-performance vehicle, one of Germany’s
finest autos.

As we cruise down the road, I vaguely wonder where he’s
taking me, but I don’t really want to know either.

All I know for sure is that we’re leaving Berlin city
limits, which is precisely what I wanted only a few short minutes ago…but I
sure as hell didn’t want to leave as a prisoner in an SS officer’s car. There’s
a lighted sign up ahead,
Reichsautobahn,
freeway of the Reich. I try to
pay attention to directions and signs. We’re getting on the entrance ramp for
East Freeway 21.

After merging, he leans hard on the accelerator and quickly
takes the left lane. He flashes his headlights at a slower-moving vehicle in
front of us. The other car quickly moves over, giving him the lane. Like most
open freeways in Germany, there’s no posted speed limit outside the city. And
since his vehicle is capable of reaching top speeds, traffic quickly gives him
the right of way.

As we cruise, I desperately try to formulate either an
escape plan or a quick suicide. If I weren’t handcuffed, I’d grab the steering
wheel. I know how to pick a handcuff lock and I’m limber enough to slip my
cuffed wrists under me, but I can’t do anything with him right next to me.

Deciding it won’t hurt one way or the other, I attempt some
conversation instead…at least for now. A better opportunity for escape or
suicide may come later.

“You were tipped off about me, weren’t you?” I ask in
English. “That’s why you were at that checkpoint.”

He looks surprised about something, and I think I know why.
My training discourages idle chitchat with my captor. Even my seduction teacher
told me that men don’t like a lot of talking. He’s probably not accustomed to
prisoners asking him anything, but I don’t see the harm. After all, I’ve
already been captured. I think the jig is up.

In truth, I’m trying to keep my mind occupied. I don’t want
to think about all the horrible things that are about to happen to me.

After a long pause, he answers my question. “Yes, I was.
Your driver is loyal to the empire.”

I silently curse my double-crossing contact.

“So why were you so late? I was told you would be there by
eight at the latest. I’ve been waiting at that checkpoint for hours. I was
actually about to leave.”

I don’t want to answer his question, but I guess it doesn’t
threaten US security. Besides, I’m a bit intrigued by an English-speaking Nazi,
so I continue our conversation.

“There was a broken water main. It closed a major road on
the other side of Berlin. The detour and the traffic slowed us down.”

He only nods at my explanation.

I’m not sure why I want to know, but I can’t help but wonder
about something. “How close to leaving were you?”

He smiles at my question before offering me a somewhat
baffled sideways glance. “I was in my car when the patrolman came running
outside with your ID. We were only told your alias was Sarah Yoven. Had I left,
though, it wouldn’t have mattered. The guards at that checkpoint would’ve
detained you for me. I only stayed because I was anxious to find you.”

Steadying my nerves, I decide to ask what I really want to
know. “Where are you taking me?”

“Ordinarily, American spies are taken to a facility in
Berlin. But since you behaved so differently in the initial interview…and
because you continue to act somewhat strangely, I want to spend more time
questioning you, so I’m taking you to my residence. That way, I can spend as
much time interrogating you as I like.”

Oh, well, goodie. Lucky me. “And what exactly are you going
to do to me?”

Without batting an eye, he answers my question. “You will be
made to cooperate of course.” His answer is very matter-of-fact, as if he’s
commenting on the weather. There’s nothing malicious or threatening in his
tone, which actually scares me more.

In a sudden panic, I wonder how many valuable secrets I
know…or if I even know any valuable secrets. My job is to memorize and obtain
military details about the Nazis to give to my American superiors…it’s not the
other way around. Hell, I don’t think I even know anything.

It may not be pretty, but spies are expendable and
intentionally kept in the dark about most US military affairs. There are a lot
of things I don’t know. I don’t know how my superiors find and communicate with
contacts in Germany. I don’t know anything about informants in the empire or
how they communicate with my superiors. I really don’t know anything about
anything. Questioning me may be pointless at best.

We drive for about an hour or so before he exits the freeway
and then turns onto another road. The vehicle’s speed decreases greatly, and we
cruise at a slower clip until he turns down a gravel road.

After what feels like an eternity, he stops in front of a
white stone house. I don’t see any lights on inside nor do I see any buildings
around. Unlike the checkpoint, there aren’t any armed guards either. I could
slip my handcuffs under me, open the door and then run like hell.

“Don’t move,” he orders, killing the engine. “If you run, I
will
shoot you in the leg.”

Hmm, I think he sensed something from me.

I reluctantly glance at his sidearm. Although I don’t say
anything, I silently agree not to run. I don’t want to spend my last few days
of life in unnecessary agony.

After stepping out of the car, he pockets his keys and walks
around to my side. He opens my door and gestures for me to get out.

“Out, please.”

I lean away from him, not wanting to cooperate.

“Out, please,” he repeats. Instead of gesturing again, he
tugs on my arm.

“All right,” I growl, angrily stepping out.

Again, he seems a bit surprised by my behavior. He didn’t
ask me to reveal anything or give any information yet. He told me to get out of
the car. I really shouldn’t be so disagreeable so early in the game. But I’m
not at all happy about this, and I want him to know that.

He pulls me toward the house. After unlocking and then
opening the front door, he shoves me inside without releasing me. He takes a
moment to relock the front door as he holds me firmly. I tug against him, but
he only ignores me as he turns the deadbolt. Without a word to me, he
effortlessly drags me upstairs. We stop in a dark room.

He clicks on the light. A bit disoriented, I take in the
sparsely furnished room. It looks like a rarely used guest bedroom. There’s
only a twin-sized bed, a nightstand and a small lamp. I’m not sure why, but he
unlocks one of my handcuffs. Giddiness washes through me as I pull my hands
from behind my back.

“Lie down on the bed, please.”

I ball my freed hands into fists. “I’m not cooperating with
you!” I can practically hear my instructors screaming at me that I’m doing
precisely the wrong thing. Again, he didn’t ask for information. He told me to
lie down.

Wordlessly, he snatches my wrist and pulls me to the bed. I
yank against him, fighting him, which I’m actually
not
supposed to do.
Unfortunately, I quickly find out that I’m physically no match for him. Tugging
against him, I practically sit down, trying to break free, but he only drags me
across the floor to the bed.

My other hand tries to grab something to stop my forward
progress but only pointlessly skids across the hardwood floor. His handcuffs
are still locked to my wrist, and they clatter against the floor as he pulls
me.

Falling back on pure, primal instincts, I kick his leg…hard.
He only grunts and stumbles, but he doesn’t release me. He flashes me a vicious
look that kinda makes me regret doing that.

“I have had a
very
long night, American, and I have
little patience left. If I were you, I would be nicer.” He brutally yanks me up
to my feet. Taking hold of my wrist, he roughly twists my arm behind my back
and bends me over the side of the bed. Pain spears through my arm and shoulder.
Pressing my face against the bedding, I squeeze my eyes shut and stifle a sob.

I can tell he’s capable of
really
hurting me. If he
pulls much harder, he’ll break something or possibly dislocate my shoulder.
Swallowing my pride, I fall back on my training, vaguely remembering I’m not
supposed to provoke my captor. I will myself to go limp before speaking.
“Please,” I whisper, turning my head to the side. “I’ll be good.”

He stops twisting my arm and releases me.

“Thank you, American. I did not want to have to hurt you
over such a simple request. Now please take off your coat and lie down on your
back.”

Inhaling deeply, I stand and slowly slip off my coat. My
captor takes it before tossing it on the other side of the small bed. Without
looking at him, I sit down on the bed before obediently lying back.

Firmly, but not roughly, he takes hold of both my wrists and
pulls them toward the wrought iron headboard.

Tilting my head back, I watch him loop the chain of my
tethered handcuff over the headboard before securing the loose shackle to my
other wrist.

Apparently satisfied, he turns without looking at me and
then wordlessly leaves the room. I hear his heavy footfalls going down the
stairs.

Fairly certain he’s downstairs, I grab the headboard with
both hands and quickly pull myself up. Resting my head against my hands, I
frantically dig for a bobby pin. I always try to have at least two tucked in my
hair somewhere during an assignment. I actually know how to pick several types
of locks with just a bobby pin, including handcuffs. To me, they’re a vital
tool behind enemy lines.

No one ever actually taught me how to pick a lock with a
bobby pin. It’s a trick I taught myself. I told one of my instructors about it
once, but he just rolled his eyes and told me, “A hairpin will pick only the
simplest of locks. It won’t get you into a secure building.”

Technically, my instructor is indeed correct. Whenever I
break into a highly secured building, like the Echelon, I have a little toolkit
I keep strapped to my thigh. It has sophisticated lock-picking tools, a Philips
and flathead screwdriver, a small saw for stubborn locks and even a lock
scrambler that can bypass both fingerprint scanners and ocular readers. I
always have to toss it before leaving Berlin though. Something like that could
be a problem at checkpoints.

But I don’t need my toolkit for handcuffs. Holding my
breath, I find a pin in my hair. After pulling it out, I deftly get to work on
unlocking one of my cuffs. In a matter of seconds, I have one unlocked. I don’t
have a lot of time, so I leave the other cuff on and let the restraint dangle
from my wrist. Not making any noise, I hurriedly sit up while tucking the pin
back in, and then slide out of bed. The minute my shoes hit the hardwood floor,
there’s a distinct
tap.

Biting my bottom lip, I quickly bend over to pull off my
shoes. I walk softly across the hardwood floor barefooted toward the open door.
Peering through the door, I search for my captor. I don’t see or hear him.
Being careful not to make any noise, I slip into the pitch-black hall and feel
my way toward the stairs.